Beth
Ihurl another handful of gravel at the window.
What am I doing here?
I vowed I’d never come back. It’s painful to remember what happened here thirty years ago.
But when Sadie’s dutiful monthly letter arrived at the retreat earlier today, a string of words flew out at me like a flock of panicked geese: I’ve got an amazing job lined up, a sort of game, at a place called Raven Hall . . .
I’ve driven for hours. Too many to count.
Red warning lights flashing on the dashboard of the hastily borrowed car, a dreadful grating noise from the engine for the last few miles.
I thought Sadie might grow up a bit if I put some distance between us.
I never dreamed that in my absence, she’d be in danger from my past.
The doors are locked, as are the downstairs windows. Flames glow menacingly behind the glass above the front door. There’s no response to my hammering. No signal on my phone. I think frantically: There are no other cars on the driveway—might the house be empty after all?
I can’t risk it.
I hurl more stones at the upstairs windows, and I work my way along, shouting my daughter’s name as loudly as I can.
“Sadie! Are you in there? There’s a fire! You have to get out!”